


The unsung heroes of the Inquisition

by noelia_g



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Crack, F/M, POV Outsider, The Inquisition's Finest, sort of crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 05:26:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2801216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noelia_g/pseuds/noelia_g
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of the developing relationship between the Herald of Andraste (later Inquisitor) and her Commander, as witnessed by the scouts and soldiers of the Inquisition, some eagerly awaiting developments and some who really did not sign up for this shit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The unsung heroes of the Inquisition

“Alright but get this,” Arden says, sliding into the empty space on the bench next to Pellaine and almost pushing him off the thing unceremoniously, “she just asked the Commander if he had taken chastity vows.”

No one needs to ask who he’s referring to, there’s only one possible culprit. Also, it’s still utter and complete bullshit. She would never.

“She would _never_ ,” Brynt says in a mortified and scandalised tone of someone who probably prays to the Herald before he goes to sleep. “She wouldn’t,” he insists.

Pellaine gives it a moment of thought and reconsiders. She would, wouldn’t she.

Arden guffaws and waves at Flissa for drinks. She waves back cheerfully and doesn’t move; Flissa does not believe in waitressing, if you can’t make it to the counter, you obviously are not fit to drink anyway. “They were talking about Templar training or whatnot, all normal like, and then suddenly the Herald is asking about taking vows and the Commander looks like he wouldn’t mind some demons attacking if any would oblige. Ask Seeker Pentaghast if you don’t believe me, she was standing five feet away and she made that _face_.”

They are all familiar with Seeker Pentaghast’s face. They are also never, ever, not in a hundred years and not under the threat of death or possession, going to ask her about this.

“Also, he went right to revising duty rosters, so anyone on guard patrol tomorrow is fucked,” Arden adds to a chorus of groans. Pellaine gets up wordlessly and drags his feet to the counter, nodding at Flissa. He has first watch, fuck it all to damnation.

Arden is about to say something else when the doors sling open and the Herald walks in, snow falling off her boots. She makes a beeline for Sera, nodding at everyone in passing, the conversations quieting, half out of respect and half because most of them were about her.

Besides, it’s harder to listen in on what she’s talking about with Sera if everyone is yapping around. 

He picks up the drinks and makes his way back to the table, pushing one in front of Bryony - she has the second shift right after him, she might need it. The mugs clink loudly and he grimaces, trying to be quiet as he slides in next to Arden, pushing him along the bench a little. The Herald seems oblivious to the attention, to the way everyone is sitting up straighter now, the way they all pretend not to eavesdrop as she asks Sera how the elf is settling in.

Sera rolls her eyes at them all after Herald leaves, and mutters something inaudible but definitely ending with ‘shite’ before she accepts a drink carried in by Flissa (and how come she gets the waitressing service?) and settles in to read her missives; she gets an awful lot of them, she says she has many friends. 

They’re not exactly subtle, and maybe, as Brynt tells them all too often for someone who still joins their little gatherings all the time, it’s unsavoury to speculate on the intimate lives of their betters.

Yeah, well.

The trouble is, as Bryony explained it the first time Brynt brought out his lecture, their betters are all really fucking attractive. What is it with the Inquisition command? she added. She had been staring wistfully at Seeker’s Pentaghast’s cheekbones at the time, but the point is valid across the board, really, from the people at the very top of command to all the ones the Herald seems to pick up on her travels.

“Alright, but have you considered the Iron Bull,” Nyssa says a little too loudly, ale sloshing in her mug as she waves her hands wildly. She is answered by a chorus of considering groans from all those who have indeed considered the Iron Bull. 

***

The Inquisition is getting more and more recruits each day and some of them have never held anything sharper than a pitchfork in their lives.

Don’t get her wrong, Bryony knows well enough that a pitchfork in the right hands is an excellent weapon, but many of the people they’re getting now seem to have two left hands. 

She kicks out the sword from one of those now and frowns down at the recruit. “Again,” she says and the man, to give him the credit, picks it up wordlessly and returns to practice without complaint. He might turn out alright.

The Commander nods at her as he’s passing, gaze moving over the soldiers, a thoughtful frown on his face. It’s an improvement over the past few weeks, to be honest, when the frown was a grimace more often than not. It’s been that way since the mages joined up, pretty much. 

Bryony puzzles over it slightly. Sure, everyone is pretty well aware that the Commander used to be a Templar, in two shittiest unlucky Circles one could find themselves in, but that can’t be just it. Bryony’s sister was a mage in the Ostwick Circle, joined the rebels in the early days, and when she mentions it, if she mentions it, she sometimes gets those looks that…

Well, not from the Commander, anyway. 

Pellaine says that the Commander had a spat with the Herald before she left on her venture into the bog; she supposedly got defensive over the whole mages thing, as she can, and the Commander didn’t handle it as well as he could. And well, on one hand, Pellaine is usually full of shit, so she doesn’t give this much credit, but then again the Commander has a penchant for saying the exact wrong thing to the Herald.

Not that she eavesdrops, not that _anyone_ here eavesdrops.

And if you believe this, Bryony has some prime real estate in Kirkwall to sell you.

Still, the Commander has been in a much better mood since the messenger from the Fallow Mire arrived, ahead of the Herald’s party, bringing the news about soldiers she rescued. It’s like something heavy has lifted from everyone’s shoulders, a weight no one has known was there until it was gone. 

It’s been a weird couple of months, the success of bringing the mages in as allies didn’t sit well with everyone, but it was still a step forward. Then the news of the squad being taken was brought in and it hit everyone hard, especially the Commander. No one was sure if there was time or resources for even an attempt at rescue, and when the Herald swiftly took up the mission herself…

Some of the men might have joined for the cause, some for the Herald, some for a myriad other reasons, but now? Bryony doesn’t think the Herald knows what this means for them, didn’t even think of it for a second. And that’s what counts even more.

She finds the opening and knocks the recruit down. “Again?” he asks and she can’t keep her lip from twitching. 

“You’re starting to get it,” she tells him and takes the position once more. 

“They’re here,” someone yells, sounds like Pellaine, who has no sense of decorum whatsoever. Bryony doesn’t turn, because whoever is here (and she has a pretty decent idea). She knows better than to turn when in a fight, even in training. 

Her sparring partner has no such qualms, lowering his sword and looking over her shoulder. This is what she has to deal with, honestly. She sighs and straightens herself, which is when she sees the Commander making his way through the soldiers, and she shits you not, but he is smiling.

It’s only now that she sees it that she realises she hadn’t seen him properly smile before, not in all the months of her time here. Quick flashes and smirks and small smiles of pride at his men, sure, but not this. She turns to follow his gaze to the Herald, sitting straight in the saddle, like a proper lady she has never really been.

Well, fuck her, maybe Pellaine is less full of shit than she previously thought.

The Commander is by the side of her mount before she can get down, faster than any stable hand was able to reach her. Bryony can’t hear what he says from where she’s standing, but the Herald hesitates before answering, her hand stilling halfway to her hair before she drops it uselessly. She nods and says something, allowing the Commander to help her down. 

She hands over the reins to one of the boys who has ran forward and starts down the path, the Commander falling into step. “I assume you got the report?” she asks, closer now for Bryony to make out the words. “It’ll probably be some time before they make their way back, we should make arrangements…” she continues, matter-of fact.

“Yes. Thank you,” the Commander says and something in his tone seems to give the Herald pause, and she busies herself with tugging off her gloves.

“Not at all, Commander,” she says finally, mouth working over something she doesn’t add.

Bryony turns back around, feeling like she’s listening to something she shouldn’t be, which is ridiculous, they’re talking about Inquisition business in the middle of the training grounds, it’s not like…

“Alright, again,” she tells the recruit and waits until he picks up his sword again. The clank of metal against metal seems to get everyone else moving, the sounds soon drowning the rest of the conversation.

She can feel Pellaine’s betrayed gaze on the back of her neck, don’t think she doesn’t. 

***

It’s well into the small hours when Ainette is able to finally sit down. All of the patients are asleep, Adan is dozing off on one of the very few free cots and her eyes are closing on their own as well. She promised she’d stay up and take the first watch in case anyone took a bad turn in the night, but she’s just so damn tired she’s not sure she’ll be able to keep her word.

The camp is eerily quiet now, outside the tent. Not quite the good quiet either, they’ve lost too many, too much. Left so many behind and some of the ones who made it through might not live long.

The worst… 

There’s a commotion outside, sound of heavy boots and a clang of armour, raised voices. Seeker Pentaghast calling out, Adan twitching into full wakefulness in a manner of seconds and out of the tent before Ainette even thinks to move. Commander Cullen is first one in, carrying someone and

It’s Her.

Someone makes a sound and belatedly Ainette realises it’s her, moving forward, magic rushing to her fingertips. Seeker Pentaghast barks at everyone to give them some space and let the healers work, everyone obeying immediately as Commander Cullen gingerly lays the Herald down on the cot. 

The pulse is weak and she’s ice cold, her face scraped and her fist tightly shut and glowing with the eerie green. No visible serious bleeding but her arm is at an odd angle, that’s worrying. Still ice cold.

Ainette sets to work, soon joined by the others. She is vaguely aware that Seeker Pentaghast and Commander Cullen are still in the tent, hovering on the edge of her sight, but she chooses to ignore them, concentrate on the task at hand. 

It’s going to be fine. She’s going to be fine. She has to be fine.

“Maker, please,” someone says in a low voice, voicing everyone’s thoughts. 

She’ll be fine. 

“You should rest,” someone says, what seems to be hours later. What probably is hours later, the sun is well up. She closed her eyes for just a second after they were sure the Herald would be alright, her magic depleted to exhaustion for now. She looks up at the Commander and blinks at him, trying to remember why it is that she can’t go rest.

“First shift,” she says finally, the words scratching her throat.

“I’ll wake you if you’re needed, go,” he says and she nods. Not going to ignore that order, it’s impossible to, especially since she’s basically asleep before he even finishes speaking.

It’s Adan who wakes her up, much later, the sky already greying again. “There’s food, better get it before it’s gone,” he tells her gruffly and she nods, rubbing at her eyes. Commander Cullen nods at her from where he’s sitting, looking bone tired. Has he slept or eaten, she wonders.

They’re not going to last long this way, she thinks. 

She’s about to ask if he wants her to bring him back some food and steels herself for the inevitable argument, he looks like that kind of person, but Seeker Pentaghast steps in. “A moment of your time, Commander?” she asks and they leave, Mother Giselle entering the tent in their wake. 

***

“I swear I saw the Champion of Kirkwall,” Aubrey says, in a voice that is probably intended to be a whisper but raises above most voices in the tavern. “Really, it was him, I swear to the Maker.”

“How would you even know?” Arden asks. “Besides, no one has seen him in years, you think if both Hands of the Divine couldn’t find him…”

“Excuse me, I’ve lived in Kirkwall, I know how the Champion looks like,” Aubrey says haughtily. “Lyssa, you saw him too, didn’t you? Climbing the ramparts with…”

“What?” Lyssa mutters, not looking at her. Arden follows her gaze to the window where a top of a certain head can be seen, sunshine in her hair. 

“Oh, I see. Scout Harding has arrived, hasn’t she?”

“What? No. I mean, yes. I mean, maybe,” Lyssa laughs forcibly. “How would I know, I’m not on guard duty today. I don’t care anyway,” she mumbles and Arden nods sagely.

“Of course. Anyway,” he drawls, eager to steer the conversation back to the important topics. Not that the Champion thing wouldn’t be important, if it were true, but there’s no fucking way. Seeker Pentaghast would have kittens though. 

“Well I don’t believe you either,” Aubrey tells him. She can be forgiven, Andraste bless her, she’s been in Fallow Mire for a long while and missed a lot of the excitement. By excitement he mostly means the Red Templars attack and the fucking huge-ass dragon, so maybe she’s the lucky one after all. 

Still, bogs. And she’s way behind on the gossip.

“Pellaine was there,” Arden tells them. “Well, for a bit, before the Commander glared him into disappearance. I don’t think he noticed me, though.” Too busy making eyes at the Herald, sorry, the Inquisitor. 

It was a dumb idea at first, something to kill the hours between training and guard duty. They’ve joked about the fact that their usually assured Commander tended lose his footing in the conversations with the Herald, especially when she broke out the charm. She in turn seemed to either enjoy baiting him or liked to torture him by breaking out all the questions about mages, occasionally shifting to outright flirting for a good measure.

No one really made anything out of it, it seemed to be her manner. Poor Brynt got scarred for life after overhearing her conversation with Warden Blackwall once, they had to buy him drinks for an evening after that one. And she and the Tevinter traded one-liners as if their lives depended on it, Aubrey even bet three pieces of silver that they were fucking.

Poor, misguided Aubrey. 

But really, the Herald actually flirted with Seeker Pentaghast a few times, and you had to have balls of steel to try that. That was her way and while the rumor mill was entertaining and the betting killed the time, no one really thought much of it.

Not Arden, at least not until today. You really had to be there, he supposes, and just his luck that he was stuck with Pellaine as his only witness, and even that only for the beginning of that conversation. 

“Still bullshit,” Aubrey says cheerfully, stealing Lyssa’s drink. The woman doesn’t even notice, busy making cow eyes at the top of Scout Harding’s head. 

Arden opens his mouth to protest, to explain how the Commander once again stuttered through the conversation once they weren’t talking business, how the Herald, sorry, the Inquisitor, looked away this time, for once seeming uncertain and unsure, how her voice was gentle and his was soft.

He closes his mouth. “You honestly think it was Hawke?” he asks instead.

***

“I’m gonna get dead,” Pellaine says, sitting on the bed, head in his hands. Arden gives him a look. “For real this time, I’m gonna get assigned to ass end of the bogs, or I’m gonna be freezing my ass off in the Emprise, or I’m gonna be cannon fodder next time the damn dragon shows its ugly snout, or…”

“Well no one can say you’re not prone to overreaction,” Arden mutters. “What did you do?”

“I resent the fact that you think I did something. Well, actually I was doing my job, my exact fucking job. Message delivery runs for Leliana, easiest fucking gig, right?”

“Depends on the message,” Arden mutters. 

Pellaine thinks about it. “Well, point. But,” he says, lowering his voice and looking around with suspicion. There’s a crow on the windowsill and he shoos it away, you never know with the damn crows.

Arden would call him a paranoid bastard, but you really never know with the fucking crows. “Spill,” he mutters.

“I might have sort of interrupted the Commander and the Inquisitor.”

“Doing wha- oh,” Arden sits down on the bed next to Pellaine and pats his thigh consolingly. “Yeah, you’re gonna be running errands in the darkspawn-infested parts of the Western Approach.”

“Fuck you.”

“Shut up. Start at the beginning. Tell me _everything_.”

***

One of the most pleasant guard rounds leads across the ramparts and through the Commander’s office. The doors are always open, the Commander just looking up briefly to nod from over the paperwork. 

It’s nice, it’s simple, it’s routine. It’s Brynt’s favourite route.

He doesn’t have to think much about it, legs carrying him on their own. Up the stairs, turn right, open the door, nod at the Commander, pass through…

pass through…

pass through the office and next to the desk which is free of its usual heaps of papers and markers, everything swept to the floor now, a right mess there. Broken glass too, a crunching sound under Brynt’s boots. 

Loud, but still not as loud as the sound escaping the Inquisitor’s lips, the Commander saying something in response, voice low and words lost when she’s laughing into his mouth, tugging him down, his hands on her hips and…

Brynt manages to move, legs carrying him on their own, pass through, get to the door. The Commander starts moving to look up, he must have heard something, Brynt’s boots on glass or his stuttering breathe or the pounding of his heart, but the Inquisitor mutters a low “oh no you don’t” and catches his mouth with hers, hand on the back of the Commander’s neck, holding him close, leg… holy Maker’s Bride, leg around the Commander’s thighs and…

The doors close behind Brynt and he leans heavily against them, mouth silently moving around the Chant of Light.

No one can ever know about this, this didn’t happen, none of it. He knows nothing, he saw nothing. 

Maker’s breath, but… nothing. 

***

It could be her imagination, but the Questionable Meat Stew might have gotten better lately. Arden says they’re making it out of nugs now, but Arden is full of shit. 

Bryony gives a spoonfull a sniff. “Doesn’t smell like any nug meat I’ve had,” she says and gets a look from Arden, like he suspects she’s lying but has no proof to call her on it. “What do you think, Brynt?”

“What?” he asks, startled enough he practically jumps in his seat. He’s been like this for the whole day, doesn’t want to say what has him so worked up. Lyssa catches her eye and shrugs - if she doesn’t know then no one will because Brynt is not telling.

“Nothing. Eat up your nug stew,” Bryony sighs. 

There’s a sudden stillness in the air and a pause in conversations where no one actually stops talking and yet you can feel it, quiet starting by ripples from the door. That could mean only a couple of people and she glances over her shoulder to see who came by.

She’s standing by the door, chatting with Flissa, smiling cheerfully, seemingly blissfully unaware of the fact that she’s the center of attention of everyone in the room. She comes by the mess often enough that people stopped staring outright, but it’s still an event for many.

Lyssa is flushing scarlet and Brynt… Brynt looks like he wants the earth to open and swallow him whole, which is different than his usual cow-eyed devotion around the Inquisitor. That’s new.

“Bryony,” the Inquisitor nods at her, stopping by the table. “Excellent work in the tournament. I’m glad no one stole you from us.”

“Never will, Your Worship,” she says pleasantly and is rewarded by the brightest of smiles, one that actually makes her understand while Lyssa is flushing and digging her fingers into her thigh. 

“I’m relieved to hear that. Don’t repeat it too loudly, Cullen was talking about giving you a raise to keep you with us,” she offers with a grin. “Lyssa, how are you? Brynt, right?” she starts and Brynt honest to god whimpers, looking down at his hands and nodding reluctantly. “Lady Montilyet was looking for someone to deliver a couple of messages to some of our allies in Val Royeaux, report to her at your convenience,” she says and the relief is coming off Brynt in waves, at least until she speaks again. “Practice knocking on those doors.”

Brynt almost chokes on his own tongue while saluting and making himself scarce, forcing out the ‘your worship’ so fast he almost chokes on air again. Bryony looks after him for a moment before turning to look up at the Inquisitor.

She scrunches up her nose and looks around curiously. “Does anyone else smell a burned nug?” she asks innocently and Bryony can’t help the snort. She swears, Herald of Andraste or not, that woman is a menace.

“Good day to all,” the Inquisitor adds and continues on her way.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the poor scouts always in the wrong place at the wrong time, especially the poor bug-scout walking through Cullen's office during the sex scene. A moment of silence for those brave souls.
> 
> Find me on tumblr (realitycheckbounced), if you're of mind.


End file.
